Lean texted you at 11:42 PM: “Pull up to the tunnel. Bring nothing. Trust us.”

You should’ve questioned it, but instead you ended up following the echo of their voices under a deserted overpass. The air smelled like wet concrete and spray paint.

Sherman was already crouched near the wall, shaking a can rhythmically like it was part of a beat. Gud was holding his phone flashlight, mumbling, “If cops come, I’m running first, just warning everyone.”

Lean turned when he heard you approach, hood up, eyes bright. “Perfect timing,” he said, handing you a can of neon blue.

You hesitate, then tag a small line next to Sherman’s swirling shapes. He glances over. “Nice,” he says softly, like you just made the whole piece better.